Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"Then I go into the front parlor and sit at the rosewood piano and play a few chords, and I can almost hear my husband's beautiful tenor voice singing, 'When you come to the end of a perfect day.' I can almost see the sheet music with pink roses on the cover. How happy we were!... I go into other rooms, too, and give the housekeeper her orders for the day and take a basket of cut flowers from the gardener... Sometimes - but not always - I walk into the reception hall and remember reading the telegram about my son in Korea." She turned to gaze out the window. "After that, nothing was quite the same."

"Where are you?" called a voice from the head of the stairs. "Oh, there you are!" Vicki walked toward the alcove with a covered tray.

"Not a word to Victoria," Grummy cautioned Qwilleran in a whisper.

"Grummy dear, it's time for us to leave for the 'chase, and I'm putting your lunch in the refrigerator. Just warm up the soup, and there's a muffin and a nice little cup custard."

"Thank you, Victoria," said the old lady. "Have a lovely time. I'll be with you in memory."

Vicki gave her grandmother a hug. "We'll see you after the fifth race."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Inglehart," said Qwilleran, bowing over her trembling hand and returning her confidential wink.

"Please leave the little ones with me," she said: "I'll enjoy their company."

Vicki said to Qwilleran as they walked downstairs, "She refuses to have a sitter when we go out, but she has a hot line to the hospital. In case of emergency, she only has to press the red button."

Bushy had removed the photographic gear from the van, and they packed it with food baskets and coolers, folding chairs, and snack tables. Vicki, wearing a flamboyant creation from the Tacky Tack Shop, said, "How do you like my sweatshirt? Fiona gave it to me for my birthday."

When they picked up Fiona at her apartment over a drug store, she too was wearing a shirt stenciled in the rah-rah spirit of the steeplechase - quite unlike her drab attire of the night before. En route, she sat quietly, biting her thumbnail.

"I suppose you've attended many of these events," Qwilleran remarked.

"Ummm... yes... but I'm kind of nervous. It's Robbie's first race."

The stream of traffic heading for the race course included cars and vans packed to the roof with passengers, the younger ones boisterous with anticipation. South of town the route lay through hunting country, finally turning into a gravel road where race officials in Hunt Club blazers checked tickets and sold souvenir programs of the seventy-fifth annual Lockmaster Steeplechase Race Meeting. After one more hill and a small bridge and a clump of woods, the steeplechase course burst into view - a vast, grassy bowl, a natural stadium, its slopes overlooking the race course, which was defined by portable fencing.

Bushy backed into the parking slot designated G-12, with the tail of the van down-slope. Chairs and snack tables were set up on the downside, and he went about mixing drinks. "Bloody Mary okay for everybody?" he asked.

"You know how I want mine," Qwilleran said.

"Right. Extra hot, two stalks of celery, and no vodka."

Already the hillsides were dotted with hundreds of vehicles and swarming with thousands of fans. Race officials in pink riding coats, mounted on thoroughbreds, patrolled the grassy course, controlling the crowd that crossed over to the refreshment tents in the infield. Near G- 12, there was a judges' tower overlooking the finish line. Across the field a stand of evergreens concealed the backstretch. Three ambulances and a veterinary wagon were lined up in conspicuous readiness.

An amplified voice from the judges' tower announced the Trial of Hounds, and soon the baying and trumpeting of the pack could be heard as they came down the slope from the backstretch.

Bushy said, "That sound is music if you're a fox hunter."

Or blood curdling, Qwilleran thought, if you're a fox. Then the MacDiarmid camper pulled into G-ll. The door opened, and a stream of young people poured out. Qwilleran counted three, six, eight, eleven - emerging with exuberance and rushing off to the refreshment tents. Kip and Moira and four other adults stepped out of the camper in their wake.

Qwilleran asked the editor, "How many of these kids are yours?"

"Only four, thank God. Did we miss the hounds? We got lost. They sent us to the wrong gate." He introduced his guests, all connected with the newspaper, and the women busied themselves with the food. Joining with the Bushlands they set up a tailgate spread of ham, potato salad, baked beans, coleslaw, olives, dill pickles, pumpkin tarts, and chocolate cake. Again the voice from the tower reverberated around the hillsides, announcing the parade of carriages, and a dozen turn-outs came around the bend: plain and fancy carriages drawn by high- steppers, the drivers and passengers in period costumes.